This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
Evidence
Monday morning dawned crisp and bright, the town slowly stirring to life as shopkeepers raised their shutters and early commuters hurried along the sidewalks, clutching takeaway coffee cups like lifelines. Troy Calloway had been awake for hours, sleep eluding him after what he'd discovered scrolling through social media at 3 AM.
It had started innocently enough—a routine check of Harry Schett's Instagram, part of his ongoing unofficial investigation. Harry had "checked in" at The Velvet Stag the previous night, which had led Troy to the establishment's social media page. There, he'd found something that made his blood run cold.
The image haunted him—a partially obscured shot showing what appeared to be a human furniture arrangement. Most striking was a figure on all fours, wearing neon green compression shorts that strained obscenely against glutes of extraordinary development. The fabric appeared moments from surrender, stretched so completely across twin hemispheres of muscle that every fiber of the material was visible under tension. The compression top had ridden up, revealing a strip of flawlessly smooth lower back, the musculature so clearly defined it might have been an anatomy chart covered in golden skin, each vertebra creating its own valley between perfectly developed erector muscles.
The caption read simply: "Our most comfortable seating arrangement yet. #MuscleBar #HumanFurniture"
Troy had stared at it for nearly an hour, zooming in on those familiar neon green shorts. He'd seen Max Schett wearing identical shorts yesterday, watching from his balcony as Max walked to the gym. The outfit had been provocative enough to catch his attention even from that distance—the material clinging with such determination that it was clear Max wore nothing beneath, the outline of his substantial endowment creating a visual impact impossible to ignore. Though the face wasn't visible in the photo, the platinum blonde hair just visible at the edge of the frame, combined with that distinctive physique, left little doubt. It had to be him. Max Schett, respected business owner, on all fours being used as a stool in a public bar.
Now, Troy stood across the street from Schett's Sportswear, watching as Max moved inside the shop, setting up displays for the day. Even through the glass, his physical presence was overwhelming—compression top stretched mercilessly across his colossal chest, each pectoral muscle creating its own geography beneath the straining fabric. The deep valley between the massive slabs caught shadows even through the window, their projection from his frame creating an overhang that defied anatomical possibility. His shorts—different today, a royal blue that seemed painted onto his extraordinary lower body—mapped every curve and contour of development that defied conventional understanding of human anatomy. The seams visibly strained along the outer sweep of his thighs, the material pulled taut with such tension it appeared semi-transparent where it stretched most severely.
Troy's jaw tightened, muscle flexing visibly along the side of his face. This was it—concrete evidence of public indecency, behavior unbecoming a business owner, grounds for official action. He checked his reflection in a nearby storefront, adjusting his uniform with meticulous precision. His own physique, impressive by ordinary standards, created substantial bulk beneath the dark fabric—thick chest pressing against buttons, thighs filling the tactical pants with powerful development. Yet compared to what waited inside that shop, he felt almost average, a sensation that fueled the burning in his gut.
The bell above the door chimed as Troy entered, the sound seemingly diminished by the sheer presence that dominated the space. Max turned, recognition immediately flickering across his handsome features, followed by something unexpected—not concern or apprehension, but a subtle smirk that suggested he'd been expecting this visit.
"Officer Calloway," Max greeted him, his voice carrying that perfect balance of respect and casual confidence. "What brings you by? Need new training gear?" He shifted his weight slightly, the movement causing his shorts to strain further across his glutes, the material fighting a perpetual battle against the extraordinary mass it struggled to contain. His thick thighs brushed against each other with the subtle adjustment, creating a soft whisper of fabric against fabric that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet shop.
Troy maintained professional composure despite the storm brewing inside him. "Just following up on another public complaint, Mr. Schett." He stepped closer, deliberately invading Max's personal space, a tactic that would intimidate most civilians. Yet Max didn't retreat, his massive frame holding ground with unshakable stability, his pecs rising slightly with each controlled breath, the compression top creaking softly with every expansion. "Interesting evening at The Velvet Stag last night?"
Something shifted in Max's expression—not fear or shame, but a subtle transformation that was more unsettling than either. His eyes seemed to brighten, his posture becoming somehow both more relaxed and more deliberately displayed, as if Troy's knowledge of his activities was not a threat but a compliment. His massive shoulders rolled back slightly, showcasing the extraordinary breadth of his upper body, drawing attention to how the fabric stretched across his torso like it might surrender at any moment.
"The Velvet Stag?" Max repeated, his tone light, conversational, completely at odds with the situation at hand.
Troy's fingers flexed at his sides, tension building through his substantial frame. "I take public decency very seriously, Mr. Schett. This is another public complaint I'm following up on. What you're doing—it's a violation of public standards."
Max's chest expanded with a deep breath, the compression top creaking audibly as it stretched to accommodate the extraordinary development beneath. His pecs swelled outward, creating deep shadows beneath their substantial overhang, the central crevice between them deepening into a valley that could have held small objects. "Is it?" he asked, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Or is it simply that you don't understand it?"
Troy stepped closer still, their bodies now inches apart, an intimidation tactic that seemed absurd given Max's overwhelming physical presence. The heat radiating from Max's body was palpable, a warmth that spoke of vitality contained within that extraordinary musculature. "I understand perfectly," he growled, voice dropping to ensure privacy despite the empty shop. "You're compromising the dignity of this town. Setting a bad example."
Max chuckled, the sound rippling through his massive torso, causing subtle movements beneath the skin-tight fabric that clung to his pecs like desperate lovers. "Maybe you should speak to the man in charge," he suggested, his tone casual despite the weight of his implication.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Troy snapped, frustration finally cracking his professional veneer.
"Ethan," Max replied simply, offering no further explanation, no context, nothing but the single name hanging in the air between them like a challenge.
Troy's brow furrowed, momentarily thrown by the unfamiliar name. "Who is Ethan?"
Max smirked, his extraordinary chest rising with a deep breath that tested the limits of his compression top, the fabric stretching so completely across the massive slabs of muscle that individual fibers became visible through the straining material. "I thought you were the big, tough detective, Officer. Surely you can figure it out." His tone carried a teasing quality that bordered on mockery, emphasizing the word "big" with subtle innuendo.
Troy's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching visibly beneath the skin. "I'm onto you, Schett. This whole thing—you, that bar, whatever sick game you're playing—it stops now."
Max's demeanor shifted with startling suddenness. He placed one hand on his hip, the other fluttering dramatically toward his face as he adopted an exaggerated camp affect completely at odds with his massive, imposing physique. The movement caused his pecs to bounce slightly beneath the compression top, the extraordinary muscle groups shifting with hypnotic rhythm beneath the skin-tight fabric.
"Oh, Officer," he trilled, batting his eyelashes with theatrical flair. "Are you going to handcuff me? I'm simply terrified!" The performance was so unexpected, so contrary to Max's usual composed confidence, that Troy took an involuntary step backward.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the camp persona vanished. Max's expression hardened, his massive frame somehow expanding further as he straightened to his full height. His shoulders broadened, his chest swelled forward, his entire physical presence seeming to grow even more imposing despite no actual change in size. "Get out of my shop," he commanded, his voice dropping to a register that brooked no argument. The unexpected display of authority was jarring coming from someone who, moments before, had seemed so willing to be dominated.
Troy stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated despite the way Max's physique seemed to command the very space around him, altering the atmosphere with his presence alone. "What happened last night, Schett? I want the truth."
Max's jaw tightened, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. Then, with deliberate calm, he replied, "Was exactly what it appeared to be. I was on all fours, being used as a stool while someone else supported a bar. That Superman costume was something else, wasn't it?" He stated these facts with the casual confidence of someone discussing the weather, not revealing behavior that should have been mortifying.
Troy opened his mouth, then closed it again, words failing him completely. He backed toward the door, his training automatically guiding his movements despite his mental turmoil. "This isn't over, Schett," he warned, his voice carrying an edge of determination despite his momentary retreat. "You haven't heard the last of this."
As the door closed behind him, Troy stood on the sidewalk, mind racing. Ethan. A name he'd never heard before, yet clearly someone significant. Someone in charge.
He had work to do. Someone in this town knew who this Ethan was, and Troy was going to find him.
